


This Secret We Share

by lolo313



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Bondage, Bottom Dean, Gangbang, M/M, Piss Play, Sub Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 10:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: There's a bar in Damascus, Georgia





	This Secret We Share

            There’s a bar in Damascus, Georgia.

            They’re making good time on I-20 when Dean takes the exit north. Sam recognizes the faded peach against a blue background, Nathan Deal’s personal welcome to Georgia _where every day is an opening day_. He sits up a little straighter in his seat, suddenly wide-awake and half-hard.

            Sam figures they’re north of Cottonville, so they can turn onto I-75 towards Atlanta, from there—to anywhere. Or they could keep east.

            Dean keeps east.

            Now Sam’s fully hard. He crosses his legs to hide it, shaming his thighs together and throwing his hands over his lap. He knows they’ve got another hour, maybe more, before they’ll hit the outskirts of town. It won’t do to be impatient. He reaches over and turns the radio up, trying to drown out the buzzing in his skull. When Dean doesn’t even so much as blink, Sam knows he’s gone, already stomping across the warped floor of the _Pig Pen_.

            They drive through Damascus, but Sam knows this is a ruse. They haven’t stayed in Damascus proper since the first time, or at least the first time Sam noticed. Instead they drive about twenty miles past it, stopping at a no-name motel on the side of the road.

            “I’m wiped,” Dean says, turning into the parking lot and killing the engine. “You mind if we crash here for the night?”

            Sam could offer to drive—they should be making their way up past Richmond, and if they drove through the night they’d save time—but of course he doesn’t. Just shrugs, the slump of his shoulder practiced and casual. Dean pays for the room while Sam unloads the car.

            Inside, Sam has to keep from pacing. He checks his watch—barely nine. He’s got a couple hours still. Dean drops the keys on his bed and kicks off his boots. Sam’s careful not to look at him directly, stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, picking over clues, looking for signs.

            “I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Dean says, shrugging off his jacket.

            “Want me to grab dinner?” Sam had an apple in Alabama, but Dean hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He must be starving.

            “No thanks.”

            For a minute, Sam sits and listens to the spray, the water bouncing off the stained tile. He knows Dean will take long, that the water will run cold before he gets out. He takes his time getting ready. Finally, Sam drags himself off the bed, grabs the keys, and drives to a diner down the street. He orders a salad and a coffee—it’ll be a late night—but he can’t keep his leg from bouncing. He nearly upends his water glass, the table’s shaking so hard. He tears himself from the booth and practically sprints to the bathroom. He has his dick out before he can even lock the door, slamming his back against it and sliding down to the floor.

            It’s quick, just a few frantic tugs and he’s coming, tacky white spilling over his knuckles. He’s red-cheeked and panting, sweat beading his hairline. He rises onto shaky knees and washes his hands in the sink, tucking himself back into his jeans. By the time he hobbles out of the bathroom, his food is waiting. He dives into it, suddenly ravenous, the lettuce ripping between his teeth with a wet _crunch_. He chews it to a paste and swallows, willing his heart to slow. He checks his watch—quarter to ten. Dean will just be getting out of the shower.

            He catches a whiff of him as soon as he walks into the motel. Not perfumed, no cologne, but the absence of smell, the lack of sweat and gun oil and gasoline. Fresh, clean-smelling. A blank slate. Dean’s dressed in jeans and a new t-shirt, laid out on the bed, absentmindedly zapping through the channels. He grunts as way of hello as Sam slips into the room and lies down on his own bed.

            Now they wait.

            Half past eleven Dean heaves himself up and tosses Sam the remote. “I’m gonna go out and grab something to eat. Want me to bring you back anything?”

            Sam thinks he says _no_ , can feel his mouth open and close, but the blood is pounding too loud in his ears for him to hear. He watches Dean pull on his boots, watches him grab his jacket and keys, watches him disappear out the door. He listens to the Impala roar to life, waits till the engine fades quieter and quieter, till he can’t hear it at all. He counts to three hundred, twice. Then he moves.

            Sam studied the parking lot when they first pulled in. Slim pickings, but there was a Ford, rusted and beat up, that would do the trick. Sam’s hands are shaking as he picks the lock, dropping low to fiddle with the wires under the steering wheel. He darts a glance around—the parking lot is deserted, the motel windows dark—and sparks the car to life. He climbs in and slams the door, not bothering to buckle up before tearing off into the night.

            He’s careful not to speed; the last thing he wants is a ticket, a delay, anything that’ll keep him from the _Pig Pen_. He runs his hands over the wheel, his cock already straining against his jeans. His jaw aches from where he clenches it, teeth grinding down to powder. He turns down Main St. and onto Upland, operating on muscle memory. He could drive these streets in his sleep—he has, in fact, for weeks, fevered dreams leaving him shaking, a wet stain forming on the sheets.

            When he sees it, squat and humble, a neon pig fizzing over a faded red door, the siding rain-stripped and peeling, it’s like he’s been gut-punched. All the air leaves him in a huff, and it feels like a hand has wrapped around his throat. He turns into a spot towards the far end of the parking lot (they’re crowded tonight, a fact he knows Dean will revel, the thought twisting his stomach into jealous lust) and kills the engine. He’s shaking again, and he runs his hands through his hair till they calm and still. Just before he opens the door, he thinks about what he’s doing, what he’s about to do, and he wonders, as he has every time since that first time a few years back, if he should turn around and go home, if he should forget about this bar and never come back. Then he kicks open the door and walks inside.

            It smells like it had the first time, ripe with spilled beer and piss, the air sickly sweet and fogged with smoke. It was not unlike any number of bars scattered across the country—derelict and anonymous, the lighting low and the crowd surly, humming with barely contained violence. A ripped pool table sits neglected in a corner, a broken pool cue like the hands of a clock against faded green. A jukebox scratches out decades-old love songs, the voice metallic, thin and wobbly. There are fifteen, maybe twenty men—they always, inexplicably men, without fail—scattered across the tables and stools. A barman in his fifties, with arms like tree trunks, his face bearded and dotted with scars, polishes a glass behind the counter.

            “Double whiskey, please,” Sam says, digging out his wallet, “and whatever you’ve got on tap.” Sam pays and retreats to an empty booth on the far wall where he can watch the bathroom. It’s after midnight, so things will start getting good soon, if they haven’t already. He wonders if someone’s already gone in, and as if on cue, a man saunters out—beer-bellied, his cowboy boots scuffed and squeaking—snapping his belt buckle into place. Sam downs his whiskey; it burns.

            There’s a steady stream of them. Every ten or fifteen minutes the door will swing open as another man—drunk, staggering, pawing at his zipper—walks in. Sam watches them, memorizing their faces, imagining putting a gun in their mouths and pulling the trigger. His belly roils with a jealous rage, his mouth filled with the bitter taste of bile. Sam orders another drink, then another. He’s solidly drunk, the world rim-fizzed and tilted. _Good_ , he thinks. It’s easier when he’s drunk.

            Around 1am the crowd thins out. The flow of men to the bathroom slows to a trickle. Only one every half hour or so. _After the next one_ , Sam tells himself, gripping the table as much for support as to keep himself from falling out the booth.

            The bathroom is empty. Twenty minutes ago a man walked out with a dopey grin, wiping his hands on his jeans. Sam watches the door, waiting. His cock strains against the confines of his jeans, a sharp, constant ache. He lurches to his feet and stumbles towards the bathroom. He braces himself against the doorframe and tries to slow his breathing. _You can turn back_ , he thinks, _it’s not too late_.

            Sam pushes the door open and steps inside.

 

            The first time was an accident.

            It was by chance Sam had seen the Impala while walking in town. They’d been staying in Damascus, halfway between a werewolf in Charleston and a banshee in Birmingham. Dean had suggested they stay the night—again feigning fatigue—as naturally as if he’d asked Sam whether he wanted Chinese or Mexican for dinner. The car’s odd apparition, as sudden and startling as a ghost’s, had stopped him dead in his tracks. He swayed on his feet; he was drunk, having hoped to douse his rage—roused by an argument with Dean, so inconsequential the details of which had already begun to fade from his mind before Sam had stormed out of the room—with liquor, but drink after drink had served only to sharpen his anger into something brittle and metallic. Sam had expected Dean to still be at the motel, smoldering with displeasure, so that his being at a bar, especially one as rustic as the _Pig Pen_ , fanned Sam’s rage anew. Dean should be home, remorseful and repentant, not out getting plastered and hunting for puss.

            With half a mind to drag Dean out, Sam stormed into the bar, the door slamming into the wall with a wooden _clack_. He swung his head left and right, taking in the rural, dismal crowd, but saw no sign of Dean. With stumbling, uncertain steps, Sam made a circuit of the bar, peering into dark corners looking for his brother. He ended up at the bar empty handed. He ordered a beer, drinking half in one glutinous gulp.

            Had he been mistaken? Sam had not thought to check the car’s plates, so certain had he been. But then where was Dean? Sam finished his beer and stood to leave, when a door on the far wall opened and a man walked out, flicking water from his hands.

            _The bathroom_ , Sam realized, embarrassed by his own short-sightedness, _of course_. He became aware too of the painful pressure pressing on his bladder, of his own, sudden urge to piss. As Sam pushed off the bar, another man walked ahead of him into the bathroom. Sam followed a minute later.

            The stale stench of urine was so overwhelming—almost a physical presence, like walking through fog—that at first Sam did not register the sounds coming from the last stall. The hinges rattled, a staccato accompaniment to the litany of gruff groans and the wet smack of skin. Even as Sam crept closer, he knew he should turn back, as if unconsciously aware of what he would find. Still nothing could prepare him for the sight of Dean, trussed up like a Christmas ham, his feet braced against the stall walls, his hands bound on a hook overhead, a nameless hick fucking him within an inch of his life.

            Had Sam been sober, less deprived of his faculties, he most likely would have killed the man, would have torn him from Dean, thrown him on the ground and beaten him till his face was nothing but a bloodied mass of raw meat. As it were, he could only gape, frozen in place, his heart thundering in his ears. He must have gasped or otherwise made some noise, because the man fucking his brother looked over his shoulder and snarled at him.

            “Wait your turn!” He shoved Sam’s chest. Sam staggered back, colliding with the soap-scummed sink. He stood there numbly listening to the man’s short, sharp breaths and Dean’s muffled moans. The man finished with an appreciative grunt. He pulled out, and Dean whined petulantly. The man brushed past Sam to wet his hands in the sink. “All yours,” he said as he smacked Sam on the back and walked out.

            Sam was alone with Dean. In the near-total quiet, his own breath seemed to roar. His hands shook; he balled them into fists, but the tremors crept up his arms. Step by glacial step, Sam inched closer to the stall, letting the door swing open.

            Dean sat back on the toilet seat, hips angled low towards the front, his upper back and shoulders pressed against the commode. His hands, bound at the wrists, sagged from a hook overhead. His feet, still in his boots, rested in make-shift stirrups on either side of the stall. From the waist down he was naked—Sam noticed his jeans folded behind his head, a sort of impromptu pillow—but he still wore his t-shirt, bunched up and pulled behind his neck. Around his eyes a bandana had been tied. In his mouth, someone had stuffed his underwear, the white cotton soaked through.

            _How long has he been here_ , Sam wondered, _why isn’t he fighting back_? As he watched, Dean wiggled, readjusting himself, the muscles in his thighs corded as he pushed himself up. Sam’s eyes trailed down to Dean’s cock, swollen and leaking, the red head bobbing slickly against his stomach. His hole gaped, winking at him, as a fresh trickle of cum dribbled out.

            “ _Mmphh_ ,” Dean whined through his gag. Sam’s eyes snapped to his brother’s face, his own flushing a heated red. Dean mouthed something, the worlds garbled and lost. “ _Pwhease_.” Sam cursed himself for his own lassitude and hurried to Dean. He reached for the ties above his head. “ _Pwhease fuck mwhe._ ”

            Sam froze. _No_ , he thought, _no. I must have misheard him_. His eyes trailed down to Dean’s cock, tumescent and needy. He wiggled his hips in way that looked suddenly entreating, pleading almost. Dean unfurled his fists, encouraging the blood back into his fingers. He snapped, once, to get Sam’s attention, and beckoned.

            “ _Fuck. Me.”_ Dean commanded, enunciating each word.

            Sam staggered, took a single step back. His head swam; he worried he’d be sick. How could Dean be here, doing this, wanting this? Sam leaned a hand against the stall to steady himself, suddenly weak. His cock twitched, pressing against his zipper.

            Later, Sam would claim not to remember. How he reached with shaky fingers to tug open the fly of his jeans, how he pushed them down around his knees, hobbling closer to Dean. The way the skin of Dean’s thighs felt beneath his fingers, warm and moist with sweat. Sam leaned heavy into him, one hand on the wall behind Dean, as he positioned his cock at Dean’s hole, already so open and wet the head slipped in without him even trying. The fuck-loose feel of Dean’s body sucking him in— _that_ Sam would never forget.

            Dean groaned as Sam bottomed out, hips flush with his brother’s. Sam smelled him, his nostril full of the sweat and piss and cum, so much cum, none of it Dean’s. The heel of Sam’s boot slipped; he grabbed Dean’s legs, pushing them apart, pressing them into his chest. Dean moaned, a high sort of whine, like a dog. Sam felt his brother’s body tighten around him.

            At some point muscle memory took over. Sam fucked his brother, the air filling with the snap of his hips and Dean’s groans. Sam tried to screw his eyes shut, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Dean’s face. The flush of his cheeks, the swell of his lips, the thin line of drool running down his chin. He buried his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, sucking burnt plums into his flesh. His hand snaked up and pinched a nipple, twisting till Dean writhed and half-rose off the seat. His hands roamed over his brother’s body, touching, lingering over spots only glanced at, always out of the corner of his eye, only ever for a second. Now Sam drank his fill of him—his eyes hungered.

            Sam’s thrusts started to skitter and lose their rhythm. The muscles in his thighs burned, his knees ached. He remembered, not for the first time, that he was no longer a young man. He straightened, pushing off of Dean’s chest, trying to find the angle. Heat pooled in his belly, dripping down into his legs. He gripped Dean’s thigh hard enough to bruise, and then he was coming, gasping and stuttering, his hips smacking into his brother’s ass as he shot tacky strings of rope to mingle with the cum of other men.

            Exhausted, Sam collapsed atop Dean. Thighs splayed, Sam nestled against Dean’s chest. Their foreheads rested together, their breath—short and warm, coming out in ragged puffs—intermingling. Dean was so warm, the soft velvet of his body so delicious around his cock, but the sickening realization of what he’d just done slowly began to creep over him. He felt like his body was being slowly submerged in a pool of mud; he felt it inching up his body, felt himself sinking deeper into it, and that soon his head would sink below the muck, that he’d drown in filthy darkness.

            As he pulled out, Dean whined and pressed his knees into the sides of Sam’s body, as if trying to hold him in place. His cock slipped free, but whether from the pressure or the simple ability to finally piss, Sam found he could no longer hold his bladder. Piss sprayed against Dean’s hole, washing away Sam’s cum, which had dribbled out to leak down his ass. Sam stumbled, unsure what to do, as his cock wagged and splashed Dean’s thighs and cock. Dean rolled his head against his jeans, his throat bobbing as he let out a series of whines, _uhn uhn uhn uhn_ , his own cock shooting out a jet of jizz, splattering against his stomach. Without thinking, Sam pushed back in, his piss filling his brother’s ass as Dean’s body clenched around Sam’s cock, riding the waves of its orgasm.

            Sam’s head buzzed as his stream slowed to a trickle. His cock, mostly soft, slipped out of Dean’s hole with a gush of piss, splashing onto his boots and spilling across the floor. Cum rapidly cooled on Dean’s belly; he hummed contentedly, seeming almost to glow.

            Sam stepped away from him, hands shaking so much he could barely fit himself back into his jeans. He bolted from the bathroom, afraid to slow down, afraid to look back. As he burst through the door, he nearly collided with another man making his way in; Sam reeled back, afraid of what he’d do, not sure if he’d throw a punch or be sick. He ran out the bar, never slowing, even as the asphalt turned to carpet beneath his feet.  Sam locked the motel door, resting his back against it and sliding to the floor.

            He must have gotten up at some point and showered, must have undressed and crawled into bed. He was awake when Dean came home—close to 4am, Sam could not help but notice—but he pretended, holding his body still and quit. He listened to him change out of his clothes, which he balled into a plastic bag and hid at the bottom of his duffel, listened to the squeak of the showerhead as he turned the water on. He sang, quietly, as he washed. Then he climbed into bed, his back to Sam, and fell asleep.

            The next morning Dean slept late; Sam got them breakfast to go, the coffee weak and bitter. They checked out around noon and headed west towards a case, Dean unnaturally bright and cheery. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove. Sam never looked at him once, couldn’t even speak to him till they were over the border. _How many_ , Sam wondered, _how many times, how many men_? Somehow he knew, the knowledge nestled in the pit of his stomach like a tumor, that this hadn’t been Dean’s first time, just as he knew it wouldn’t be his last. In the future, they would make their way through Damascus a few times a year—never more than once in two months, never more than six months between them—often staying in a roadside motel nearby. And though Sam tried not to, telling himself after that _this_ , this was the last time, Sam always went to find his brother, trussed up and begging to be fucked, and gave him exactly what he wanted.

 

            Not much has changed. The floorboards are still sticky with beer, the tiles still reek of piss. The lighting flickers overhead, the bulbs need changing. There’s more graffiti on the walls, maybe, but Sam never bothers to read any of it (afraid of what he’d find, his own brother’s scratchy, familiar drawl— _last stall, good time guaranteed_ ). Sam locks the door behind him—he plans to take his time and doesn’t want anyone walking in on them. He turns on the tap, cups his hands, and splashes some water in his face; it trickles, cool and biting, down his neck to dampen the collar of his shirt. He does not look at himself in the mirror.

            “ _Mmmph. Mmph!_ ” Dean wiggles in the stall, his boots knocking against the sides. He’s impatient, excited even. Sam wonders if he recognizes him. Not as Sam, not as his brother—Sam can’t let himself imagine that, what Dean would do if he ever figured it out, would rather swallow the gun hidden beneath his pillow than find out—but as one of the many nameless fucks who take their fill of him. If, maybe, he’s memorized the fall of his foot, the way he always washes his face before. If he looks forward to it, the way Sam does. Sam likes to think he does—it makes him feel a little better. “ _Pwhease_.”

            “ _Shh, shh_ ,” Sam soothes as he swings open the stall door. Dean’s in rare form; his chest, flushed and heaving, glistens. The head of his cock, colored an angry red, shimmers with a pearl of precum. Sam worms a finger behind his balls, pushing into his hole. It slips in so easy; Sam wiggles it around, pulls it out sticky with strangers’ cum. He wipes it clean on Dean’s cheek; he leans into the touch, nuzzling, and when Sam pulls his hand away he whines.

            Sam pops open the top button of his jeans and tugs the zipper down. He can’t help but sigh with relief as his cock flops free. He hefts it in his hand, gives it a squeeze. Without warning or build up, Sam starts to piss, his stream splashing onto Dean’s stomach, pooling in his bellybutton and spraying over his cock. Dean lets out a long keen, his cock twitching and dribbling out another drop of precum. Sam arcs his stream up to splash over Dean’s chest, making sure to douse each nipple. As the stream starts to weaken, he hunches down and pushes into his brother’s ass, the last of his piss mixing with the cum of men who came just to fuck his brother.

            Sam starts to fuck him as soon as he’s done, pulling halfway out, a dribble of piss and cum leaking onto the floor, before pushing in hard, his balls slapping against Dean’s ass. Dean likes it rough, Sam knows, having listening to the sounds he makes, his moans rising over the rattle of the stalls. So Sam fucks him swift and brutal, one hand gripping his thigh, the other pushing hard on his chest, fingers digging into flesh. The wet slap of their skin rings in Sam’s ear. His breath puffs hot against the side of Dean’s face; he buries his nose in the scruff of his hair, inhales the earthy smell of his sweat. He imagines all the things he’s say to Dean— _you’re so beautiful, Dean, these men don’t deserve you, let me, please, let me take care of you, I promise, I promise you’ll never need anyone but me, just let me_ —if only he could.

            He comes in Dean’s ass, hips stuttering, filling him like water fills a cup. But instead of pulling out, he stays buried inside, lets himself revel in the warmth of his brother’s body, the incessant squeeze of his ass around his cock. His lips press against the side of Dean’s neck, a lazy sort of kiss, open-mouthed and panting. He tries to straighten, and the strength leaves his arms. He collapses once more against Dean. He’s filthy, his shirt soaked with sweat and his own piss, but he doesn’t care. For a second, he lets himself curl against his brother, imagining that he’s twelve and sick, that Dean has stayed home from school to take care of him. In his fever he remembers Dean’s hands undoing the drawstring of his pajamas, furtive touches, sudden warmth spilling out onto his belly. But then he wakes and he’s alone in bed, Dean in the bathroom, and the worst of his fever has broken.

            Sam stands, a little woozy. He looks at his brother, cum dripping out of his ass, the collar of his t-shirt soaked with piss. Without knowing why, Sam reaches out and takes the underwear from Dean’s mouth. For a second his mouth hangs open, either surprise or muscle memory, Sam can’t say. When Dean speaks, his voice is hoarse from disuse.

            “That was,” he starts, low and rough, before he coughs and spits. “You were amazing.”

            Something in Sam thrills at the compliment, blushing and preening. He ignores it and grabs Dean’s jaw. Quick, before he loses his courage, he kisses him, presses their mouths together in a sloppy embrace. His tongue darts into Dean’s mouth, runs over his brother’s tongue, relishing the taste. Then Sam lets go and runs out so quick he’s worried he’ll trip.

            He doesn’t go to the motel, not at first. Just drives, radio off and windows down, the inside filling with the white-noise rush of wind. The sky colors gray, bleeding into orange, by the time Sam makes his way home. He sees the Impala and parks beside it. Dean’s asleep in Sam’s bed. He stops, thinking briefly that maybe he’s confused, or still drunk, but he sees his watch on the nightstand, his shoes at the foot of the bed.

 _It means nothing_ , he hopes. _It means everything_ , he fears.

            After what feels like eternity, Sam locks the door and sheds his clothes, making his way to the bathroom. He showers quickly, quietly, and slips beneath the sheets of his brother’s bed. He rolls away from him, facing the wall, and wills himself to sleep.

            All night he dreams of fire and Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. There's a sequel to this brewing.
> 
>  


End file.
